My Poetry

Suicide Note for my Mother

2022-11-18T16:24:00.000-06:00

Last week we had to close the hurricane shutters

being suicidal is a little like that

It’s dark

It’s scary and you’re not sure if you should stay or if you should go

It’s loud, so loud, but you only have a rough idea of how much danger you’re actually in

It’s isolating

There is no way out

Well, there is one way, but it’s difficult to decide

People will tell you all sorts of things

Things that they think you should do

Things that they would do in your position

Things any reasonable person would do

But a hurricane is not reasonable

It’s noisy, and it claws at you just on the other side of those black metal shutters trying to get in

And always -what will people think?

Terrible things, people will think terrible things, you already knew that didn’t you?

They will call you a coward

You will break your children’s hearts

But the only person’s heart I want to break is yours

The only voice I want to stop clawing at me is yours

I wish you would just die

It would be so much simpler to love you when all hope of you ever loving me is gone

It’s the hope that kills, I think

It’s my hope that kills me

When Johnny died there were pages in his journal about the beast in his head

The beast? that was him, the man you let harm your children

The man you let beat us, belittle us

The man who called 10 year me a stupid cunt while he held fistfuls of my hair and pushed my face into my breakfast because he thought I had stolen change from his dresser

I had, fuck him

But it’s not his voice that is screaming in my head

It’s yours

I want you to die so maybe, that voice will stop

I want you to die so that he will be alone, hopefully sitting in his own filth, unloved and isolated

I want him to live a long time like that, alone

But mostly, I want you to die

I want you to die, not quickly, not quietly, or in your sleep, and not at peace

I want you to die slowly and ask for me and for me not to come

I want you to die unforgiven, knowing your only living child did not forgive you

Loved you yes, I fucking hate that part, but I want you to know that I do not forgive you

Your granddaughter is getting married, and she didn’t tell you

Maybe you know this, maybe you don’t

All of your grandchildren want nothing to do with you

The most obvious answer is because you let him say horrible things to me, and to them

You say horrible things about everyone really, except yourself, and him

What kind of a mother does that?

What kind of a mother picks herself and her twenty Talbot cashmere sweater sets over her children and grandchildren?

Honestly, I want to know

The less obvious answer is because beyond allowing his abuse, you told us we were crazy for even trying to talk about it or heal from it

That will fuck with someone’s mind let me tell you.

Did you ever have moment when you wanted to protect us? Where you thought about standing between his fists and his words and your children?

Maybe you did, I doubt it, because

what would people say?

What the fuck would people say, mother?

We can’t have people knowing what was happening in our home, can we?

Where would your polished image be then?

What good would the cashmere, dinner parties and shoes be if everyone knew they belonged to a monster?

You were always beautiful on the outside and terrible on the inside

I think you might be aware of this

You let it happen

Over and over

And then would make us tell him we loved him because it upset him so when he lost his temper and smacked us around

That poor man you would say

He loves you, you would say

He didn’t mean it, you would say

You own sister asked you to stop him

She told me that many, many years later, shortly before she died herself

You said no, she told me that too.

I hope that haunts you

I hope you never find peace

I hope how ugly you are on the inside becomes visible to everyone, and that you know that they see it, finally.

I hope when you look at yourself in the mirror you are filled with revulsion at the site

It’s his voice that Johnny listened to on repeat when he killed himself, did you know that?

And we both know it took Johnny years and years to finally die, listening to that asshole over and over

It’s your voice that I will hear

It’s your voice I hear now, it does not stop, it comes out of everyone I see and speak to

It is my whole world somedays and I hate it

I hate you

I hate that nothing will shut it up for more than few moments at a time

It is always there

I think the only reason I’m still alive is I fought back

I punched back, I stole the fucking change from his dresser and spit in his food

Johnny just took it, soaked it all up, and tried to make peace

My baby brother’s desire for peace is what killed him

I hate that I still desperately want you to love me

I think I hate that the most

It makes me feel pathetic

Because I know I come running back to you when you offer even the tiniest scrap of kindness

Like some poor dog who squirms on its belly trying to appease its abusive owner

Tail tucked, head bowed, just hoping that this time will be different

That this time it’s okay, that it’s safe

It never is for more than a moment

You do take exceptional care of your dogs, ironically

always have

Loved them without condition

Would never, and I mean never let anyone harm them

People say people who are kind to dogs are good people, but that’s not always true is it?

It’s not that you are incapable of love

You are simply incapable of loving me

You are not incapable of kindness and care

You are incapable of kindness and care toward me

Unless, of course we’re in public, then you’re the image of a caring mother

The well dressed, socially perfect mother

Ah, but when you do love me, it’s the best feeling in the world

After the hurricane I stood on the beach, waves at my ankles, sometimes my shins

It wasn’t the waves that would knock me over, it was the way they shifted the sand under my feet and I lost my balance

That’s what if feels like when you love me, glorious, powerful, and beautiful, until the undertow shifts the sand beneath me and what I thought was solid is pulled out from under me

I’ve described it as walking on eggshells, holding on to the moments when you loved me, but really it feels more like sand shifting when I’m not paying close attention and then I’m underwater, again

Crab walking backwards to safety, again.

And I want you know, down in your bones, I want this to be the only thing you hear

That you are responsible, that you have killed me

That I do not forgive you

That I do not wish you peace

That I wish you would just die slowly knowing you destroyed your children because you cared more about yourself, your shoes, your image and that asshole.

small stories

2015-10-07T00:24:00.000-05:00

I came alone.

the first time, since.
I came alone. today,
the first time
since we were
we, and from my corner
I watched,
us, side by side,
legs touching, and ankles entwined
telling each the small stories,
telling the small stories that
made up our days.
opening,
and then offering
little bits of ourselves,
to each other.
opening,
sometimes slowly,
the little
bits of ourselves,
carefully
removing a brick,
maybe two, from the walls.
a brick, maybe two
from the walls we had built,
and for a time, putting them down,
entwining our stories,
the small stories that made up our days.

Sun fills the doorway, fills
the doorway,
and I see you,
I see you walk in, the sun
glinting
off of those sunglasses
you wore.
I look from your eyes
to your smile
and I tell you my small stories,
the small stories that make up
my day,
the ones left unfinished
the new job, and now,
you tell me your stories, your
small stories, once again
entwining our stories,
entwining,
our stories
once again.

Sun fills the doorway
the doorway that's empty, and
a brick, maybe two, still
wait on the floor, the space
they once held in my life,
the space,
they once held,
still lies open.

Sun fills the doorway
the doorway that's empty, and
a brick, maybe two, remain
on the floor
I hold my small stories
in one hand, lie the stories
one hand that lies open, a hand
that lies open as I
walk out the door.

Ode to a Man on a Honda

2015-10-07T00:05:00.002-05:00

Ode to a Man on a Honda

Shall we dance?
just you and I?
take a ride to our horizon’s end…

shall I wrap my thighs
-tight-
round yours?
grasp
your leather hips -
lean into you
as black ribboned road’s vibrations
consume us -
combine me with
your heat.

can I close my eyes -
and feel your lashing hair
lick
my cheeks,
my eyes
into my mouth?
will it taste
of you?
of road-and-wind-and-sweat.

myself, machine and man -
wide open to the sky
as we blister sunny fields of flowers
their faces turned in awe.

chrome keeps flashing
sunlight briefly
while rubber treaded miles are
~melting~
into asphalt,
with our blended beads
of sweat
pressing-in-between-us,
as we race
to
-every-
-heated-
-swaying-
wave~on
our
horizon.

2015-07-21T13:58:00.000-05:00

not to touch

I read Neruda with you
in a dream
worthy of your untamed mouth,
your heavy eyes
holding the deep night's velvet,
your hands, impossible
not to touch

I woke with you
my eyelids
draped, and then
opened to cold solitude,
an emptiness caressed
by dawn’s orange fingers
your touch fleeing on chaste butterfly wings

my love, a transparent child,
cries soft round tears
that float up and leave my
tender kisses in the
pure whiteness of clouds.

sleep

2015-06-07T14:37:00.000-05:00

pretending, I arrange

pillows, I arrange and

I imagine

the space

you would fill, your

breath's rhythm, your

mouth's heat

by my shoulder,

in my hair, the

movement on my hip of

a single finger tracing

my pale skin.

I imagine

the causal tangle

of our legs.

and then

I close my eyes,

lean into you,

and sleep.

opening

2014-05-08T10:34:00.000-05:00

I sit here with the dog, and with the cat and I listen. I listen to the cardinal's coquettishly singing, to the woodpecker's percussion, and to the accompanying consort of chickadees, sparrows, and of one mourning dove. I sit and watch as the squirrel, tail flicking, scolds the dog as he now runs round the willow tree issuing an occasional woof as if to say, I didn't want to catch you anyway. The cat, remains asleep in the red deck chair he claimed as his own, with only the occasional half opened eye to indicate his distain.

My coffee has cooled from the breeze that also makes the willow wisps sway and dance. The very first tiny lilac flower has opened, much like a sleepy child awakening from a nap on a picnic blanket on a warm day.

I would sit in this moment, and I never need another thing.

acorn

2013-03-22T23:09:00.000-05:00

here we love
and rest our heads,
here, exquisitely you touch.
here I am unwound,
your lover, and
here our hands unclasp
and now I bid you leave.
and in my hand, one acorn
that you will never see.

dreams to spare

2013-02-06T11:31:00.001-06:00

"And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."

                                              The Tempest IV,i

of course it's 'normal',
part of the 'process'
but after 2 1/2 years, or
30ish months, or
about 9,000 days of
living with someone has several 'regulatory dysfunctions' (doctor's words, not mine)
in his brain
with someone who manifests these 'dysfunctions' with difficult behaviour
(difficult, defiant, dangerous, direful, dreadful, deranged - God how I love a thesaurus - behaviour)
and even though you have been his only constant parent, and support, his sane, safe place
when he asks you, correction,
when after $4,000 in medical bills - this month,
after hundreds of miles and hours of car trips,
after you've read yourself blind to understand so you can be that sane, safe place
when he screams at you,
from his 17year old ego-bound place
"Do you know what it's like to have to give up on your fucking dreams?!"
for the first time, you can respond like that sane, safe person you work so hard to be,
even after the second and third time,
but eventually what you see is all the parts of you that you did give up,
the parts of you that gave up All of the dreams your 17year old self had,
all the dreams your 25 year old self had, and the dreams
of your 34 year old self, your 41 year old self, and the 48 year old self that is looking
straight into his grief, pain and anger
and as you stand there, with all of the lost dreams wrapped around your throat and your heart,
his and yours, because they are same for you,
will all of the dreams for him and dreams for you that you push aside
day after day after day, after motherfucking day
with all the dreams neither of you will never realize because you're certain you'll be in this hell forever
all your dreams for both of you that you don't even peak at, each, every moment, of you life, right now
because it is easier to pretend you don't want them, than to lose them over and over again,
as you stand there with all of your collective dreams smashed and weeping
on the stupid beige carpet between you
you respond "yes" in a voice that is louder than the sane, safe voice
you tell him "yes" you know "what the fuck it is like", no longer even pretending to be sane,
you tell him "yes" and so does everyone else in the world, and then you pick up new dreams,
and then you suck it up and move on and you do you best, knowing as you hear your voice
that this is not your best,
not by a long shot
but this,
this smashed, weeping, broken person is the best you have to give him
right now
and you toss another dream into heap.

shiny happy people full of naught

2013-02-06T11:13:00.003-06:00

'... I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children...."
from 'The Invitation' by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

--------------------------------------------------------

it's been one week
and I'm too damn tired to slap on
that bright and shiny plastic smile
and say all the stupid pointless, and hollow words,
to pointless, hollow plastic people - with shiny smiles - who don't,
actually,
give even the slightest of damns,
to whom,
it has never occurred
to give a damn,
about anyone but,
themselves.

it's been one week, and
the best I can do is put my head down
to sneak the odd nap,
and hope I don't drool on my arm.

one week, and I still wish they did,
give a damn, that is
I think,
Really,
that they
Should
Give-A-Fucking -Damn
that we're in so much pain over here,
HELLO.... can you see me?
can anyone see us?
fuck it.

but thinking and wishing
for people to be different doesn't
do anything but make me more nuts,
and today I quit bashing my head
against that glass wall.
today, I walk away.

today, I made myself some goddamn tea
and lit a goddamn candle,
because, somehow that's suppose to help
with
something....
I have no fucking clue what.

and now I'm writing word, after word, after Mother-Fucking Word,
that mean absolutely nothing, it's just my
word vomit on a page,
I'll write till I can't anymore, then
I'm going to draw some really ugly lines,
some terrible pictures,
and doodles, that I will hate, and I'll crumple them all up,
and throw them at the wall

and I wonder
why it is I haven't cried yet (except for that one time).
shouldn't I be crying?
shouldn't I be on the floor sobbing?
I mean really, this is really awful stuff, the stuff of every parent's nightmares
and all I can manage is tired
and occasionally snippy?
what the fuck wrong with me?

I'm just so damn tired,
my stomach feels like cold black stone, and
a boot is stomping down, Hard, on my chest, and I can't breath
but no tears, no time for tears.

maybe I'm tired enough to finally see,
really see
who the love comes from,
who is my tribe, who will hold us, and sustain us.

the rest are dross.

---------------------------------------------------

"What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage...."
from Ezra Pound's 'Canto LXXXI'

buy your own flowers

2013-02-06T11:12:00.002-06:00

and when you think things won’t get worse,
that things have turned a corner,
and while it’s not rosy,
at least it’s not hell anymore,
and you dare to hope that there could be a future.

then,
that night when you’d expect to be in bed
you are driving quickly to emergency
you are driving your child
your child with the belly full of pills
and you’re hoping you get there before
it kills his liver, before
it kills him
and in your pajama bottoms you walk determinedly past people
and go to the head of the line
(how very un-Canadian of you)
and you say in a loud clear voice your son has overdosed
and you hand them the bottle
then it’s all motion, and follow me
and take off your clothes and pee in this cup
needles for blood, needles for IVs, stickers for electrodes
monitors and carts with medications
speedy doctors and nurses all talking at once
and you sit, in your pajama pants, and text his father, because
his father who was too fucking upset to do anything useful, because
his father couldn’t even manage to put on his own damn shoes
so, you’re in charge, again
you’re the one who copes, again
the one who holds the family together, again
it’s not that you mind, but
wait, you do mind, you mind a lot
you’re tired, and you’re alone and watching the speedy medical staff
and you have to answer his irritating questions with text messages

later, when it seems your son won’t die tonight,
you go home and talk down his father who is ‘very upset’
and ‘needs to vent’ and likes to
‘process his frustrations out loud’, to you, because he can’t talk to anyone else
and what the hell is he going to tell his family
(don’t answer that)

and when you finally say fuck it and go to bed
3 hours before you get up for work, and
you lay your clothes out on the floor, just in case,
just, in case the hospital calls and you have to rush back
because actually he is going to die tonight
but he doesn’t
so you go to work the next day and do the only thing you can think to do
is write a fucking poem
because that fixes everything
because you sure can’t talk to people about the latest and greatest Swirling Shit Storm
your family is going through

Here are the Swirling Shit Storm Rules:

your son goes to rehab,
no one notices
you drive 700miles a week,
you leave your daughters to fend for themselves
no one notices

your son overdoses,
no one wants to talk to you
your daughters are so tired they don’t want to talk to you
you buy your daughters ice cream and teddy bears and chocolate
but that fixes nothing
their brother is still in the hospital
and they can’t talk about it
they don’t want to talk anymore about it

your son actually dies,
well then, everyone wants to talk
people send you flowers
and bring food
and love, and there is a big get together
and everyone says nice things about your son,
about you, and they actually
talk to you and your daughters
and his father can vent to someone other than you

and there’s the rub,
until your son actually dies,
there’s no one to talk to
you’re buying the fucking flowers for yourself
and the fucking comfort food for your daughters
and talking his father, the fuck down, again,
and again
and again
because you're in this on your own
and you best just get used to it.

where's a musician when you need one

2012-10-22T20:51:00.001-05:00

I think it's worse when they are kind, when they are friendly, when they "let you down easy". When they offer a real promise of friendship.

Or worse yet, when friendship was all they ever wanted.
Sometimes a handshake is just a handshake.

I think that is why I always dated jerks,
jerk musicians,
jerk writers,
jerk artists;
with a jerk you knew what to expect.
A jerk would treat you badly, and you would love them more for it.
A jerk would offer tiny scrap of affection, just when you were about to walk,
and you would fall for it, again
and again.
And eventually they don't even bother to dump you, they just fade away.
With a jerk you could be justifiably angry,
you could have a proper snit.
You could be injured, and cry about it to your girlfriends over bottles of cheap white wine and jars of chocolate icing that you ate with a spoon.

Decent men are dangerous. Decent men, they don't give you that option. When a decent man doesn't want you, you smile, chew on your cheek to keep from crying right away, and pretend your arse off that you are "Just Fine" with this.

Later, you see yourself differently, and
then head straight back to the nearest motorcycling riding guitar player with a ponytail.

year of the dragon

2012-10-19T11:59:00.004-05:00

When I turned 44, I let go of my inner critic (the one who warned of sagging, and distortion and of future embarrassment) and I used the money my mother sent me for my birthday and I got my first tattoo, a 5cm in diameter spiral sun burst, it sits just above my heart. People can only see hints of its edges with most clothing I wear, which is what I wanted. I wanted a sun to remind me of my inner radiance, and I also wanted to tease people, just a bit. In Yoga you see a lot of tattoos. Not so many skulls, or flames, more OM symbols, butterflies, birds, flowers, all very, well, Yoga like. In a Yoga top, in a few positions you can see all of it, which is great in Yoga, I fit right in.

My mother, who owns 20 cashmere twin sets, irons all bed sheets, and who is always socially impeccable, was appalled, which made me smile, just a bit. She warned how awful it would look when I was 70 and 80, when my breasts were racing to my waist, how I would regret this, which made me smile just a little bit more into my artfully arranged salad (we were out for a civilized lunch at the time).

My daughters were awestruck with my new coolness.

That was 4 1/2 years ago, and I want another, two actually. My oldest daughter, who has three (all small and very clever and tasteful) is thrilled. I want a Dragon, like the one I had airbrushed onto the back of my shoulder during a girl's weekend in Provincetown, to remind me of my inner dragon, and also to look just a little bad ass in Yoga. It's the Year of the Dragon, my year, and I am discovering the closer I get to 50, the less I worry about what other people think, or what I will look like when I'm 70, or 80, or even 90. Personally, I think I'll look kind of cool, but who knows, I'm not there yet.

The other tattoo I want will go along the edge of my right foot, so I can see it when I'm meditating. It's a line from a favourite poem "What I do is me: for that I came".

Any there it is. What I do IS me. It's taken nearly fifty years of trying things the hard way, of trying to fit what I am into everybody else's definition for me, for me to realize I like me as I am, and starting from there is as good a starting place as any.

Here is the actual poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves - goes itself, myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came."

love, maybe

2012-10-17T12:11:00.001-05:00

The Irreconcilable Differences between Mind and Body had become so profound
they were heard in the Court of Judicium. The usual reserved Attendants
were appalled at the excess of emotion and were given to making small 'tsk
tsk' sounds behind handkerchiefs and fans whilst disapproving eyes squinted
down at the proceedings.

Mens Mentis represented Mind, Corpus represented Body.

Mens Mentis presented an extensive past history of failures to illustrate
the likelihood of the present endeavor ending in heartbreak and
humiliation. An impressive parade of witnesses came forward to give
evidence to support the case. One spoke of stretch marks, belly fat, and
sagging breasts, another of age and foolishness, and yet another spoke with
passion about the need for caution and restraint in all affairs..

Corpus, not to be out done presented extensive physical evidence, stomach
sitting too high in chest, heart becoming larger, beating more quickly and
thus increasing blood flow, of the increased occurrence of deep breaths
with extended exhales, the memory of skin on skin, and the presence of a
hopeful smile. All these events occurred despite the extensive evidence
presented by Mens Mentis, argued Corpus, and therefore must be given more
weight.

Mens Mentis moved to strike from the record any memories because they
occurred within the Mind and not the Body.

Corpus then moved to strike all memories of past failures because they did
not occur in the Body.

Both motions were overruled by the Most Honourable Judge Iudex, stating
that both motions included events that could not be solely related to
either Mind or Body, and thus where considered Joint Property.

The proceedings have been going on for weeks, at times it appeared the Mind
would prevail, but then events would occur and body of Body's evidence
became increasingly stronger. Each time this happened, Mens Mentis would
argue that Body was incompetent to stand trail and should be removed and
placed in protective custody. The Most Honourable Judge Iudex has, so far,
overruled each of these objections, but the talk among the Attendants is
that with the passage of time and without fresh physical evidence
(memories, everyone knows, after a time become increasingly unreliable)
that the Judge will rule in favour of the Mind.

Meanwhile the jury continues to absorb the proceedings with passionless
expressions.

time

2012-10-17T11:55:00.000-05:00

It's been ten years since he died a long and difficult death. Ten years since she cared for him. Today, the dresser still contains his clothes, she still sleeps on her side of their bed. Ten years later and sometimes she asks me where is Charlie?

She says she wants to die as I comb her washed hair. She says she hates this place and I should go to Hell as she methodically swallows each pill with a sip of ice water and a bite of cracker. Ironic for an Atheist, but I understand her meaning. They tell me the strokes changed her, I wouldn't know I have only know her as this.

She would lie in their bed drenched in her own urine, rashes oozing under her ample skin folds, teeth browning and unbrushed, dirty hair matted. She would sleep herself to death, if I let her. Or maybe she would get up, eventually, without me encouraging, moving and pulling her from her bed, without me washing and combing the matted hair, brushing the brown teeth and washing and tending to her skin. Maybe.

Maybe her anger is at living for the last 10 years, at her heart beats, at her lung's breath, or maybe it simply lands on the closest breathing person. Maybe somewhere locked inside is the woman she once was, the woman I never knew.

hope

2012-10-17T11:53:00.000-05:00

Kian, he said, like Ian with a K.
I met him on the ocean, on the boat I took to see the whales, and fell in love with his voice and the warmth in his skin. After the whales, when I was still shivering from cold, I stayed on deck to sit with him. Our homes are separated by land and by ocean, but here we sat heads together and talked about the world.
Later, we met again at the wharf where you come to see the fishing boats and watch the seals open and close their nostrils and look at you with soft brown eyes. We talked some more, and I took pictures of seals and of seagulls.
I should have taken his picture, instead I took pictures of fishermen.
Now we send emails, mine long and detailed, too eager, his short, utilitarian, but still kind. I use many words, he wants only a handful.
I've build us a life in my head, but I don't tell him.

2012-10-09T12:14:00.000-05:00

Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130

chick here to listen

Cataclysmic Cosmic Approaching Catatonic

2012-09-13T22:47:00.000-05:00

The best laid plans...

careful what you wish for.
things couldn’t get any worse.
you can’t please all of the people all of the time,
or even some of the time.
sometimes none of the time
sometimes not even yourself
so what’s up with this stupid pleasing thing?

and this you must always remember
never forget.
no good deed will ever (ever) go unpunished.

friends don’t let friends ... what?
and what is it that friends let friends do?
should do. would do. screw who?
what do you do with friends who hate each other’s others?
let do, don’t do, should do – with who?
will this be on the final exam?

planning.
planning is over rated.
spontaneity on the other hand,
(there will always be another hand to keep you on your toes)
spontaneity can bite you so hard on your ass it bleeds.
(ass biting on the other hand can be under rated)

and as a rule try to speak the same language
as the man you want that wild affair with.

and another thing.
scratch that last thought,
and skip the conversation – its over rated
and can lead to planning
and we all know where that can get you.

and sometimes even well placed
humorous loving support
can mean -fuck all-
yes, yes heartbreakingly sad, but true
these times may call for biting sarcasm
and excessive speed.

and when you plan
(plan a four letter word)
to run away
when that escape opportunity opens up,
you should, Get the Fuck Out of Dodge.
do not pause.
do not think.

do not pass go.
LEAVE.

when you miss that chance,
or the chance misses you,
or the fates intervene,
or whatthefuckever
what do you do?
rant-wallowinwords-tantrum
try-to-find-the-message-in-all?

What if there is no fuckin' message?
What if you’re really stuck in dodge?

so what?

So WHAT?

so what if you’ve simply fallen into a
Cataclysmic Cosmic approaching Catatonic
Cluster Fuck
and THAT’S where you were always
meant to be?

So what…

inspiration

2012-08-26T23:36:00.000-05:00

and sometimes
when I would be doing other things,
I write words inside my head.

I write words for you as I inhale,
words for you as I exhale.

I write because of your warm hand, the way it felt on my shoulder
I write so I will not close my eyes, and lean back into that comfort
I write so I can leave without reassurances.

I write the words so they brush lightly across the page, touching sightly; I write til I can lean into their comfort.
till the rasping of my pen on this page calms me
till the blank space is filled with words
and within words, I can relax.

you, as I inhale
you, as I exhale

and if
I write for long enough, I will not want to
lean back and rest against your body,
place my head by your neck, close my eyes and breathe.

instead
I lean into words, into the rasping of pen on paper, into the large letters curving across my page
here, in these words, I rest and close my eyes.

The Invitation

2012-08-22T08:03:00.000-05:00

I am working on one of my own right now, but in the meantime.... read this. If I were ever to marry again, I would read this during the ceremony

The Invitation
Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Listen to this

2012-08-20T17:30:00.001-05:00

I've posted this before, but I've just listened to it again and it's just as powerful.

Listen to it.

Moment of Silence by Emmanuel Ortiz

you probably think this poem is about you

2012-08-16T09:36:00.000-05:00

Dear Public,

My mother said in her last email said I should write a poem for you, so thanks to my brilliant friend David who started this with his parody-

"Multigrain. It’s probably not your favorite health food

Multigrain, I’ll bet you really hate eating health food

Don’t you, Don’t you, Don’t you"

I've stolen his concept and run with it here. I think she meant a poem about my own selfish nature and failings, but I'm writing blog about that because there are too many failings to put in anything but an epic poem, and I don't have that skill set, also I don't wanna write an epic poem.

So I've done a parody of a song that David just did a parody of (but this is not a parody of David's parody, just to be clear), a song I never liked, and now I have it earwormed firmly in my brain, and will likely be driven slightly more mad by it, which should not make much overall difference in my outward behaviour.

This will likely get me permanently disinherited, and leave me and my children living in poverty the rest of my life (as predicted) but since I going to end up that way anyhow, I might as well have some fun with it.

So, damn the torpedoes and here you go Public. Enjoy (or become enraged whatever suits you):

My mother, you probably think this poem is about you

My mother, I'll bet you think this poem is about you

Don't you. Don't you.

You had me many years ago when you were still quite naive

Well you said that I had such pretty hair

And that you never meant to conceive

But you gave away the things you loved and one of them was me

We had some fun, but that went away when you got a husband and

I got too saucy, I got too saucy and...

My mother, you probably think this poem is about you

My mother, I'll bet you think this poem is about you

Don't you. Don't you.

Well I hear you went down to Florida and enjoyed your time in the sun

That you had no space or time for us

To visit and have some fun

Well you do what you should all the time

And when I don't, you tell

Me I am a failure, that I am a failure and...

My mother, you probably think this poem is about you

My mother, I'll bet you think this poem is about you

Don't you. Don't you. Don't you....

- Poets, they will seriously mess with your head.

narcissus

2012-08-06T15:46:00.000-05:00

it's 3am, and I need to hear sunlight

hours wealthier, you

step out into life.

something in here is dying;

curled, I listen for its breathing.

time drips somewhere in a cave.

love? you were in love with the idea

it tastes of quinine, dipped in too much sugar.

I learned to embrace bleeding,

to love the sticky sweetness.

an emptying heart has enough blood

to flow across a kitchen table

before turning black

(you would never write this down).

sitting between our worlds are the

cold, smooth stones I collected.

in spring snow covered the daffodils.

metaphorically speaking

this murder will be misunderstood.

because of your hands

2012-07-28T21:55:00.001-05:00

because I looked at them

and not your face, at

your hands,

the floor, my feet, but mostly at

your hands

and so,

I saw the line suggesting

a creative lover,

one that shows

a clever mind,

fertile imagination, and

the mound by your thumb

that indicates passion

covertly

I read the meaning of your finger shapes

long and articulate,

the depth of your spirit

as you moved your hands, and spoke softly to me

my own hands were shaking

as I rocked

ever so slightly, back and forth

and as I write, I tremble

briefly

at the memory of your hands

because of your hands link to pigpen poetry

important things

2012-07-28T19:37:00.001-05:00

important things

I don't write,
write poems,
anymore.

I used to.
write them
a lot, now
when I want to write about your mouth, and
how your lips would press, and the words were held
behind your teeth
or, years later how
my first taste of loukoumades
created a sensation in my mouth that made
my knees bend, and that when I put my fingers
on my lips to lick them,
I thought of you.

thought of why I used to,
used to write about
the important things,
like the shape of your mouth
and the sensation of honey on my tongue, and
old wishes for us.

then I remember,
remember how
you wouldn't look into my eyes
or touch me
unless you had to, and that,
and that, it was as if
you were afraid.

I don't write,
write poems,
anymore, because my words,
all of them, were for you, and
now I think I should
keep them,
keep them, for myself.

Lauren Zuniga, To the Oklahoma Lawmakers: a poem

2012-03-22T10:36:00.000-05:00

Damn.

I had just read a quote from Jon Anderson "The secret of poetry is cruelty", and then I saw this. Very powerful. I need to listen to more of her work.

If only those in power would listen.